the ephemeral

there is constant death one undergoes every waking moment.  a death and a rebirth happening in nuances, so that one changes, ever so subtly.  noticeable only after a certain time has elapsed, a certain event has happened to mark a kind of ritual.  even though the constancy is there.  every waking moment.  or even when one sleeps, in dreams.

the self, then, is always an ephemeral state.  always in transit, in passing.  and all the thoughts it bears, and by bearing the thoughts i mean both the carrying of it and the giving birth to it, are fleeting.  formless.  weightless, except when they are forged into form.  and by forging, i mean to wield it, to wrought it into shape.  be it action, or art, or word.

the word as a vessel for the ephemeral, else, the abyss of nothingness.  or is the latter really?  sometimes, when it is late like this, the hour that is both very very late at night of now and very very early in the morning of now, i remember Plato's immaterial world.